Life Lessons from a 26-Year-Old Mom Who’s Still Figuring It Out
By Phoenix Rising
You know that feeling when you’re trying to parallel park and your passenger keeps saying, “Turn left, no right, no LEFT!” and you’re sitting there thinking, “I got this, but also, please don’t let me hit that BMW”? That’s pretty much what guidance feels like as a kid—except the BMW is your entire future, and everyone’s got an opinion about how you should park it.
The Great Guidance Debate
As a child, you look up to someone to “guide” you and show you the way/path of the real world that lies ahead of you. That guidance usually comes from someone older than you, sometimes around the same age as you. In this case, it’s from an adult, or like I call them, “grown children.” And let me tell you, some of these grown children are about as mature as my toddler when he’s told he can’t have ice cream for breakfast—which is to say, not very.
Guidance means allowing one to think about what was said. It’s giving someone the option to either go left, right, or stand still and not move—kind of like being at a really confusing intersection with no GPS signal. And whatever decision is made, you have to let the person either deal with it alone or go the route with them. It’s not about being a backseat driver in someone else’s life; it’s about being a thoughtful passenger who knows when to speak up and when to offer a tissue.
But here’s the thing that gets me twisted: the difference between guidance and control. Control is when someone tells you exactly what to do, when to do it, and how to feel about it afterward. It’s like having someone else hold the steering wheel while you’re trying to drive—sure, you might not crash, but you’re definitely not learning how to navigate the road yourself. Guidance, on the other hand, is teaching someone how to read the road signs, check their mirrors, and trust their instincts when the GPS inevitably leads them down a dead-end street (because let’s be real, technology fails us when we need it most).
My Foundation: A Dad Who Got It Right
As a child, I was raised with my father from the age of 2, maybe 3. My mother and father split up, and my father decided it would be best for me to grow up with him. Now, I’m not saying my dad was perfect—the man once tried to make pancakes and somehow set off the smoke alarm three times in one morning—but when it came to raising me, he understood something fundamental about guidance that many adults never figure out.
I had many female role models in my life, including my aunties (my dad’s cousin, my mom, and her friends). These women were like a council of wise advisors, each bringing their own flavor of wisdom to my life. Some were the “tell it like it is” type who would look at your outfit and say, “Baby, that ain’t it,” while others were the gentle nurturers who would fix your mess and then teach you how to do it right next time.
But my favorite mentor was my mom, Ren. She was like a mother to me in every way that mattered. This woman would take her time to do my hair, which was thick as wool and about as cooperative as a cat getting a bath. Let me paint you a picture: my hair had its own personality, its own agenda, and its own zip code. Doing my hair wasn’t just a task—it was an Olympic event that required patience, strategy, and probably a prayer or two.
It was a difficult task, but she still would do it so I could look presentable to the world. She never made me feel like my hair was too much work or too much trouble. Instead, she treated those hair sessions like sacred time—we’d talk, laugh, and sometimes I’d fall asleep in the chair while she worked her magic. Looking back, I realize she wasn’t just styling my hair; she was teaching me that I was worth the time, worth the effort, worth the patience it took to help me shine.
She would let me sleep with her when my father was away at work at night, and she would always pray over me every night to make sure I was safe. There’s something powerful about having someone pray over you as a child. It’s like having a spiritual security blanket—you might not understand all the words, but you feel the love and protection wrapped around them. Those prayers became the foundation of my faith, even when life got complicated later on.
Waiting for Superman (aka Dad)
I would sometimes sleep on the couch or wait up in my father’s bed all night waiting for his arrival from work. Now, let me tell you about the dedication of a child waiting for their hero to come home. I had the patience of a monk and the determination of a detective staking out a suspect. I would fight sleep like it was the enemy, convinced that if I closed my eyes for even a second, I might miss his arrival.
As soon as I heard his keys turning in the front door, my eyes would light up, as if I was never asleep. It didn’t matter if I had been nodding off for the past hour—the sound of those keys was like an alarm clock that triggered pure joy. My whole night/day would be complete as soon as I saw my father. He was my rock, my protector, my first love, my everything, and most importantly, my teacher.
This man worked his tail off to provide for us, often pulling long hours at jobs that were more about necessity than passion. But he never let that exhaustion stop him from being present when he came home. He didn’t just walk through the door and collapse on the couch (though Lord knows he probably wanted to). Instead, he’d scoop me up, ask about my day, and make me feel like I was the most essential thing in his world.
Life Lessons Disguised as Fun
He taught me the most important lessons of life, such as respect your elders, speak when spoken to, and STAY OUT OF TROUBLE!! The last rule was the #1 rule in his book, written in all caps with about seventeen exclamation points. And let me tell you, when my father said, “Stay out of
trouble,” he meant it with every fiber of his being. This wasn’t a suggestion or a gentle recommendation—this was a commandment handed down from on high.
But here’s what I love about my dad’s approach: he didn’t just lay down the law and walk away. He taught me how to swim and ride a bike. He let me watch him do yard work and so on. Every activity was a classroom, and he was the professor who knew how to make learning feel like play.
The swimming lessons were particularly memorable because, let’s be honest, I was not what you’d call a natural in the water. I had about as much grace as a brick and the buoyancy to match. But my dad had the patience of a saint and the persistence of a used car salesman. “You’re not going to drown on my watch,” he’d say, “but you’re also not going to be afraid of the water.” He taught me that fear and respect are two different things—you can respect the water’s power without being paralyzed by fear of it.
The Great Training Wheels Betrayal (That Wasn’t Really a Betrayal)
He taught me some important life lessons through each activity that we did together; though they were hidden, they were there. For example, when I rode my bike for the first time, I fell a couple of times, but I had training wheels on, so I wasn’t scared to try again. Those training wheels were like little guardian angels keeping me upright while I figured out the whole balance-and-pedal
at-the-same-time situation. I felt invincible with those wheels—like I was riding a two-wheeled throne that couldn’t possibly betray me.
So when I finally got the hang of it, he took them off. I was so sad because I had just gotten the hang of riding my bike, and suddenly my safety net was gone. I remember looking at those little wheels lying on the ground and feeling like my dad had just taken away my superpowers. “But I was doing so well!” I probably whined, employing the classic child logic that if something ain’t broke, why fix it?
To my father, I had it too easy, so since I had grasped the concept, it was time to elevate to the next level. At that time, I didn’t understand why, but now I realize it wasn’t because I had it “too easy”; it was because in life, you always have to elevate to the next level. My dad understood something that I wouldn’t fully grasp until much later: comfort is the enemy of growth.
The Philosophy of Training Wheels
In life, you have to take the training wheels off at some point and have faith that God will be the only aid and training wheel that you will need on the next journey or the subsequent elevation. This is one of the most profound lessons my father ever taught me, though he delivered it through the simple act of unscrewing two little wheels from my bike.
Think about it: training wheels aren’t meant to be permanent. They’re intended to give you confidence, help you develop balance, and teach you the basics. But if you keep them on forever, you never learn to ride truly. You never experience the exhilaration of perfect balance, the freedom of speed, or the confidence that comes from knowing you can handle whatever the road throws at you.
Once you have mastered your task and, as I call it, become comfortable with it, it’s time for you to elevate yourself and embark on the next journey. This lesson has followed me through every stage of my life. When I became comfortable in school, it was time to challenge myself with more advanced classes. When I got comfy in a job, it was time to seek more responsibility or new opportunities. When I became comfortable being single, life brought me relationships that challenged me to grow and evolve.
Applying Lessons from Behind Bars
Now, as a 26-year-old mother of two who is currently incarcerated, I find myself reflecting on these lessons with a depth I never expected. Being in this situation isn’t exactly what anyone would call “part of the plan,” but it’s given me time to really think about guidance, control, and what it means to take the training wheels off when life gets real.
Prison is a place where control is the name of the game—when you wake up, when you eat, when you sleep, where you go, who you talk to. It’s easy to let that external control seep into your mind and make you forget that you still have choices, you still have agency, you still have the power to guide your own thoughts and reactions.
But here’s what my dad’s lessons taught me: external circumstances don’t have to dictate internal responses. Just because someone else controls my physical environment doesn’t mean they control my spirit, my growth, or my ability to be the mother my children need me to be—even from a distance.
The Grown Children Who Guide Us
Looking back at my childhood, I’m struck by how my father and the other adults in my life managed to guide without crossing the line into control. They gave me boundaries—Lord knows I needed them—but within those boundaries, they let me make choices, make mistakes, and learn from the consequences.
Too many “grown children” (and yes, I’m still using that term because some adults really are just big kids with mortgages) think that guidance means making all the decisions for someone else. They believe love means removing all obstacles, preventing all failures, and solving all problems. But real guidance is teaching someone how to navigate the barriers, learn from failures, and develop the skills to solve their own problems.
Training Wheels for Motherhood
As a mother myself now, I think about what kind of guidance I want to provide for my children. I want to be their training wheels when they need support, but I also want to know when it’s time to step back and let them find their balance. It’s terrifying, honestly. Every parenting decision feels like I’m either giving them tools for success or setting them up for therapy bills.
My children are growing up in a world that’s vastly different from the one I knew as a child. Technology, social media, and access to information have revolutionized the way we live and interact. But the fundamental principles my father taught me—respect, integrity, faith, and the courage to take on new challenges—those are timeless.
The Ripple Effect of Real Guidance
The beautiful thing about receiving good guidance as a child is that it creates a lasting, positive impact. My father’s lessons didn’t just shape who I became; they’re shaping who my children will become. When I talk to them on the phone from here, I find myself echoing his words, sharing his wisdom, passing on the gift he gave me.
“Respect your elders,” I tell them, just like he told me. But I also add, “and remember that respect is earned through actions, not just demanded because of age.” I want them to understand the difference between honoring someone’s experience and unthinkingly following authority.
“Stay out of trouble,” I say, knowing full well that trouble has a way of finding us even when we’re trying our best to avoid it. But I also want them to understand that making mistakes doesn’t make you a bad person—it makes you human. What matters is how you learn from those mistakes and what you do differently next time.
Finding Faith in the Wobbles
One of the most complex aspects of my current situation is feeling like I’ve let my children down, as if I’ve failed to live up to the lessons my father taught me. But then I remember that learning to ride a bike involves a lot of wobbling, a few crashes, and getting back up to try again. Perhaps this is just a part of my journey—a challenging chapter that doesn’t define the whole story.
My father taught me that God would be my training wheels when the earthly ones came off. That faith has been tested in ways I never imagined, but it hasn’t broken. If anything, this experience has taught me to rely on that spiritual support system in ways I never had to before.
The Next Level Awaits
As I write this, I’m preparing for my own next level—returning to society, rebuilding my relationship with my children, and figuring out how to be the mother they deserve. The training wheels are off now. There’s no safety net, no guarantee of how things will turn out, and no instruction manual for navigating life after incarceration.
But I have something better than training wheels: I have the lessons my father taught me, the faith that has carried me through the darkest times, and the knowledge that every ending is also a beginning. I understand that proper guidance isn’t about controlling someone’s path—it’s about giving them the tools, confidence, and love they need to navigate whatever path they choose.
A Message to the Grown Children
To all the grown children out there who are trying to guide the younger ones: remember the difference between helping someone find their balance and holding them up forever. Love them enough to let them wobble. Trust them enough to let them make choices. Believe in them enough to know that they can handle more than you think they can.
And to anyone who feels like their training wheels have been yanked away too soon, or who is struggling to find their balance on life’s uneven road: remember that wobbling is part of the process. Every master cyclist has once fallen off their bike. Every success story includes chapters of struggle. Your current chapter doesn’t determine your final destination.
The guidance my father gave me wasn’t perfect, and the path I’ve taken certainly hasn’t been a straight one. But those early lessons about respect, faith, and the courage to take on new challenges have been my anchor through every storm. They’ve reminded me that I’m more than my mistakes, stronger than my circumstances, and capable of more than I sometimes believe.
Life keeps taking off our training wheels, whether we feel ready or not. But maybe that’s the point. Perhaps the goal isn’t to feel prepared—maybe the goal is to have faith that we’ll find our balance as we go, trust that we have what it takes to handle whatever comes next, and remember that every wobble is just practice for the smooth ride ahead.
After all, the best riders aren’t the ones who never fell—they’re the ones who got back up, dusted themselves off, and kept pedaling toward whatever adventure awaited them around the next corner.
Phoenix Rising is a 26-year-old mother of two who is currently incarcerated. She writes about life, family, and finding strength in unexpected places. This piece reflects her personal experiences and perspectives on guidance, growth, and the ongoing journey of learning to navigate life without the support of training wheels.